Page 41 of Six Month Wife
And that’s when it hits me that I still haven’t told her the estate representative is flying in next week.
It will have to be our best performance yet. We’ll have to sell the whole damn show.
11
Adair
I pull a crisp,fitted blazer from the hanger and slip it over the silky blouse I picked out last night. The satin feels smooth against my skin, but there’s a slight tremor in my fingers as I button it up.
Today isn’t about dressing up in my most professional clothing or putting on a strong face—it’s about proving I can hustle as hard in heels as I do behind a juice bar.
If I want Citrine and my product line to succeed, I can’t rely on whims or “maybe” promises.
That’s why, on this Saturday morning, I’m suiting up to make my own opportunity happen, not waiting for it. I roped Sue in to man the shop for the entire day.
As I stand in front of the mirror, I take a deep breath, running through my plan in my head. I’ve read every article and interview I could find on Evelyn Thatcher.
She’s the former governor of Florida, retired but not idle. Thatcher has been investing in startups, especially those run by women, since she retired from politics. She’s selective, but her backing has helped more than a few brands go big.
And that’s exactly what I need right now.
Citrine isn't enough, not as it is. I’d banked on its location next to the yacht club being the golden ticket. My market research had practically screamed success with a prime spot like that. I’d envisioned yacht club members coming in droves, looking for a touch of relaxation and luxury.
And yet, that flood of clients never came. Turns out, young money doesn’t care about aromatherapy or lymphatic drainage—tequila, Botox, and whatever’s trending on TikTok.
The monthly boost from Parker helps. It keeps the lights on, lets me bring in help here and there, even breathe a little easier. But it’s not a rescue boat. Citrine’s still drifting.
His inheritance could be the game changer. But that’s a long game, months away, at best. And too many variables could blow it up before we ever get there, so I'm not resting on my laurels for that.
I can’t bank my future on a “maybe,” not when I’ve worked too hard to get here. And I’m too proud to go crawling to Bets, asking her to pour more money into Citrine after she already invested so much in the buildout and operations of the place.
No, I need a new investor, someone willing to take a chance on my products, not Citrine.
I shake off the thoughts as I grab my bag, double-checking that I have samples of my line. My packaging sparkles in the light. My body hums with a little burst of pride in what I’ve created. Organic, sustainable, luxury products, everything that today’s health-conscious market loves.
And if Evelyn Thatcher doesn’t bite, I’ll have to startselling chakra scrubs out of the back of my car. Which would be tight out of a Porsche.
It’s quality stuff, and if I can get someone to see that, I’m sure I can turn this around.
I slip out the door, careful not to make too much noise. I'm wearing my Birkenstocks, carrying my heels to put on when I get there.
Thankfully, Parker’s front door remains firmly shut. The last thing I need is for him to pop out this morning all cheer and sex appeal, and ask where I’m going and why I didn’t tell him about this meeting.
I haven’t even told him about the full extent of my struggles with Citrine—not in detail, at least. He thinks this is a quiet period, nothing more.
But I know better. Every day that passes without a solution feels like the walls closing in, and I can’t sit back and hope for Parker’s inheritance to save me. I need action. I need to know I’m doing everything I can to build something sustainable, something that’s all mine.
Once I’m outside, the fresh morning air clears my head a little.
The drive to the mainland stretches out in front of me, long enough to give me time to think but also short enough that I can keep my nerves under control. I’ll have about forty minutes in the car, plenty of time to prepare my pitch one last time.
I settle into the driver’s seat, glancing down at my phone as it lights up with a new message. It’s Parker.
Coffee later? I wonder how convincing we can be at Sip in front of all the regulars. ;-)
My stomach twists. It's cute, and sounds more inviting than what I have to do. But it isn't in the cards today.
The message is simple enough, but I hesitate, mythumb hovering over the screen. This meeting is private, my chance to prove to myself, and to him, if he ever finds out, that I can handle my business without relying on someone else’s windfall.
